Top Fun with Old Ghey Knudsen

During the Thatcher regime in Britain we enjoyed having a ton of horny Yank soldiers over, it almost reminded me of the war when I was selling an hour of my three sisters time for American nylons and chocolate, that was during my fat cross dressing phase that I don't want to talk about .
Retirement had bored me plus my sisters had seriously gone down hill in the last 40 years so I signed up for the Ghey Knights jet fighter school at the local US military base.

We all had to be given nicknames or call signs, I had anal fetish about darkies at the time so I was named 'Loosesphincter' the navigator who would fly with me was named 'Duck.' One day we got a top flight instructor call signed Charlie. I was expecting some bloke to come walking in and what do you know I was right, he did have lovely long blond hair though. Charlie went through a dog fight scenario and then asked what I would do, I frowned as if I was giving it some thought but really it was me hemorrhoids acting up and I answered "Kick his pan in" Charlie said that was too aggressive, too intense but I knew he liked me, in a strictly military way of course.

While flying with Duck on a training flight we spotted a couple of Zebulon fighter saucers, the ones George W Bush said didn't exist, now those damned dirty aliens know better than to mess with Earth after the last time (The battle of Roswell 1947) but they were taking the piss. My instruments told me they had their space rays locked on and I couldn't avoid them so I shouted, "duck" and he said "what?" so I shouted "duck, duck!" but it was too late for Duck to duck and he got zapped, yep his goose was cooked alright.

The plane went out of control, I'm not violent by nature but I gurly-slapped us out of the cock-pit, ever been punched in the cock-pit? its fucking sore, why do they make men's bikes with a high cross bar you can land on? designed by men-haters, er I mean feminists no doubt.

We landed in the freezing sea off the Oirish coast, the water would kill a Canadian or Yank in 15 minutes but not me, being an old semen I tasted the water and I could tell what current I was in. I'd be close to land in about 6 hours, yay! oh they don't bother looking for us as their budget for the 'Homoeroticus expendables' was quite limited. I held onto dear dead Duck and waited to drift home and hoped for his sake we'd get picked up before I got hungry.

Getting back to the base Charlie consoled me about losing Duck, no really, the morgue lost him the useless cunts. I wanted to teach the Zebulons a lesson so after giving a strange darkie or two a BJ, shower, shit and a shave I went looking for another plane. Stabber was recovering after a knife fight so I took his plane along with his navigator Emo. After hearing about how no one understands him and that he just doesn't like navigating he cares about it, oh and don't forget the crying, we took off in search of some revenge.

We jetted through the air and I shouted, "I feel the need, the need for some crack" but all Emo had were a few damp acid tabs so I took them.

On my CB radio I could hear there was a dogfight in progress, the Zebulons had cum out of the sun and shot doon Zipper, Ice-cream man was holding his own, I said, "we lose no more men today" and revved the plane up to 55 mph, I meant business.

Ice-cream man was panicking, "bogeys all over me" he shouted, I spoke up, "use yer sleeve like everyone else ya cunt" and set to work attacking the Zebulons. I shot down two and the other three bugged out.

When we returned to base Ice-cream man came over to me and said "you! you can wipe my nose any day" and placed a cap on my head that said Top Gun on it, I was able to exchange it for one that said "ghey and free."

Charlie got reassigned which is just as well I've had enough unhealthy relationships in my time, with my new hat I got all the darkie cock I wanted and the odd bit of ass too.

I wrote a song about Charlie called, "Take my breath away" it was about how I was allergic to his aftershave and couldn't breathe.

I sold my story to some Yank with more money than sense, no idea why he wanted it of course I left out how we carpet bombed the Zebulon homeworld to stop their attacks, its hard to attack when you are neck high in carpets and the Zebulons aren't very tall.

Old Knudsen is still Buy-Sexual, but he keeps his feet on the ground these days, other than when he has them tucked behind his ears when he is getting pumped up the shitter by Mexican boys. I'm so full of the horn I have to sometimes pay for sex as wanking, pocket pussys, actual cats and jars of liver tend to get dull or go off after a while and I need the thrill, plus I'm fucking sick of eating the liver afterwards, waste not want not.
Don't judge me ya cunts I'm a ghey sex addict so its no my fault.

So seriously no offense to the Yanks. but why would you want to be a fucking American when you could be normal? I just don't get it.

Predator On The Run

A shallow debaser, a ghey fool amongst fools, a shadow searching for the sun before I can exist. America hates me, I hate me, everyone hates me. It sucks being a Knudsen, just ask my mom., An outcast, a mongrel, a trash monkey, a jizz hound. I eat, speak and mix pure crap. Lounge lizards look down upon me, I am homosexual and proud, I am the world famous Old Knudsen thrown out of the, United States

Special Thanks

My special thanks to the Port Authority, Ellis Island, NYPD, Philip Morris, Colonel Sanders, Gilligan and the Skipper, the guy who invented ghey pornography, the hairy legged washed up B movie star who lives upstairs, and of course his royal highness Pope John-Paul III. No thanks however to Uncle Sam and all those assholes at City Hall who deported me for the minor offense of molestation in the subway. Thank you to the Romanian / Peruvian/ Australian / British / American / Serbian army for training me in the deadly arts of Special Farces, self-rimming and making me a deadly keeler. Thank you to Barry's Tea, Tayto crisps and Arthur Guinness. A special thanks to my right hand for now being my only companion. I love you too Lefty, but not quite as much. Thank you to MJ for introducing me to hordes of her dried up lesbian pen-pals and the smell of her gas. I now have more stored gas fragrances than Estee Lauder. But most of all, thank you to me. Without Knudsen the world would be shittier than a Harlem crapper after a half eaten bucket of greasy fried chicken. Duller than a blog dedicated purely to kittens and horses. Worse than the Beatles animated car-tune movie, and lastly, more lonely than an ageing female Canadian blogger.